We are all about brews and books …

Don’t talk to Bob

“Like, who talks to Bob anyway?” Bob said as he traced out the words written on the walls of a solitary confinement cell in the abandoned, maximum-security, prison that they were scouting for their latest horror movie shoot.

The rules traced out on every single available space in the wall were.

How to survive solitary confinement?

Stay calm

Eat your meals

Keep a track of time

And don’t talk to Bob

Bob of course was offended that a prisoner who died by execution, some twenty odd years ago did not want to talk to him.

“I mean, I totally get it. Like why would anyone want to talk to Bob? Bob is not even a name; it is a fucking sound. Like huh or hmmm or zzzzz.” Ben spoke as they relentlessly kept shooting pictures of the wall.

Rachel laughed, that deep throaty laugh of hers which had been sending slivers of pleasure down my spine since I first saw her.

“Well, don’t you wonder who is this Bob is? The Bob; that the prisoner did not want anyone talking to?” Rachel asked. “I mean, like is it a figment of a prisoner’s imagination. But if that is the case why does the writing on the walls differ so much?”

“Yeah, Rachel is right. Look at this.” Bob said. “Throughout the cell the handwriting style has changed a lot. Some sentences are even written in Spanish and French. Wow, I can safely say that more than thirty prisoners who have lived in solitary confinement here did not want to talk to Bob anymore. This place is doing wonders for my self esteem.”

I sighed. This Bob was such a cry-baby.

“Bob you are such cry baby.” Rachel said. “Not everything is about you, you know. This is another Bob they are talking about.” I smiled as Rachel read my thoughts, literally.

Bob took his camera and slid to the ground. Sulking as he browsed to check all the images he had taken so far.

Rachel turned towards Ben, her eyes brimming with curiosity.

“Ben” she spoke in a loud conspiratory whisper, “what do you think this Bob would’ve done that no one wanted to talk to him?”

Ben looked troubled, “I want to understand how could there be another person in solitary confinement on the first place?”

Rachel jumped, her eyes widening as an idea took shape. “You think that Bob was a ghost?”

“I am not saying anything like that. I’m just saying it could be collective paranoia. There are noted instances like this in history, you know. For example, dancing plague in the 15th century, the Charlie Charlie panic last year.” Ben spoke.

“Right, collective paranoia about someone called Bob. How threatening can anyone named Bob even be?” Rachel asked.

“Are you saying that because my name is Bob, people are not scared of me? They are not intimidated by me.” Bob, who was still sulking in a corner spoke. I decided that I did not like this Bob. He was too much of a sissy.

“Bob, this is not about you, it is about the Bob we are not supposed to speak to.” Ben patiently explained.

Rachel, still roaming her soft hands over the ridges of the words engraved into the walls, spoke, “Maybe Bob tortured the prisoners. Maybe it was a game, everyday he would come and ask them something, and if they responded he would enter the cell; big bad Bob, massive in size, with chunks of flesh hanging off his face. He would walk up to those mewling, terrified, death row prisoners. Take their right hand in to his. Caress their mottled, pale skin, while they beg for mercy. And then; break their fingers, one by one.”

It was a brilliant visual that she had created and instantly I imagined it. The crick crick crick of each bone snapping.

“Or….or…maybe he took off body parts, one by one, every single time a prisoner responded to Bob.” Ben said, grinning.

“Oooohhhh” Rachel’s face glowed in orgasmic delight. “What weapon did he use to take the body parts, Ben?” She asked.